


Everyday Guardian

by Jedtree



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Abuse, High School, M/M, Protective!Venom, Self-Harm, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-18 01:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17571431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jedtree/pseuds/Jedtree
Summary: It's easy to take things for granted when you have no basis for comparison.Compared to living with an abusive Grandad, getting treated like a social reject at school, and bullied by the captain of the football team, his old life had been pretty damn perfect. There's no end in sight to his misery. Eddie fully expects that he'll have to white-knuckle it until college.And then, something unpredictable happens.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING. THERE WILL BE TRIGGERS IN THIS STORY FOR SELF-HARM and ABUSE. I’LL BE DOING MY BEST NOT TO SENSATIONALIZE ANY OF THE MORE PROBLEMATIC CONTENT IN THIS STORY, BUT READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 
> 
> Also, yeah...sorry. Didn't mean to start something when I was already working on Good Boy, but the lack of dialog in that one is frustrating. And I've developed an obsession in a different fandom (one I don't want to write in) so decided on merging the themes occupying my brain space with this fandom. 
> 
> I'll be posting progress/status on twitter @jedtree , although I'm not sure if people check there. C'est la vie.

When Everett Winston slams Eddie into a locker bright and early on Monday morning, it's like a light show going off in his head. Eddie barely hears the "Watch it, loser!" that Winston spits at him as his body's seizes into a curl. Every bruise he's "earned" this week from Grandad Willis is suddenly throbbing.

Eddie bites his lip bloody to get himself standing upright again, just in time to flip Winston the bird. Who, of course, sees it and immediately doubles back, his most devout football cronies - Chance and Beaumont - in tow.

"You got somethin' t'say to me, limpdick?" he asks, prowling forward so that they're close enough for his frame to tower over Eddie by a head.

Eddie, unfortunately, can't stand any taller or create any space. If he takes a step back, he'll be flush against the locker - a position he's learned not to put himself in the past year. 

 

Forced to tilt his head to meet Winston's eyes, he asks, voice free of the shivers raking up his back, "Why are you so hostile?  I mean, every day it's the same thing. Either you knock into me, or you put graffiti on my locker, or you steal my gym clothes, or you trip me in the hall. But, why? What exactly do you find so gratifying in messing with me?"

Winston, because he's a buffoon, just shrugs. "Do I need a reason? I enjoy it, so I do it. You shouldn't analyze everythin' so much," Winston says, patronizingly slap-patting Eddie's cheek. "Who knows. Maybe you'd be taller if you didn't waste so much energy askin' stupid questions." Then he slams Eddie into the locker once more, for good measure, and walks away with Beaumont.

Chance pauses just long enough to say, "If you had any friends, he'd probably leave you alone." And after imparting that piece of wisdom, he flicks Eddie on the nose and runs off to catch up with his buddies.

"Morons," Eddie mutters, massaging his shoulder as well as he can. If there were any justice in the world, those jerks would be unpopular with bad grades and few career prospects.

Instead, all three of them come from wealthy, reasonably happy families with plenty of resources at their disposal to ensure they get into the best colleges,  the best fraternities, and the best jobs.

Especially Everett Winston.

There aren't any visible dark edges in his life as far as Eddie can see. From the things he's overheard Winston say to his teammates in the locker room pre-gym class, Eddie's pretty sure the guy's got a rosy home life, with a stay-at-home mom who insists the family eat dinner together and go to church every Sunday, as well as a dad who's frequently on his cell-phone but never misses a Home game.

Sure, his grades could be better and the expensive car he got on his sixteenth birthday already has a dent in it, but there's zero red flags that could point to secret burdens he might shouldering.

No bags under his eyes.

 

No secret frowns being flashed when he's outside the company of his entourage.

 

No difficulty focusing on schoolwork.

 

No suspicious long sleeves in the middle of summer.

 

He's just Everett - the guy who's got everything going for him.

Sure, sometimes, appearances can be deceiving. But other times, things are exactly the way they seem.

Eddie's not sure what people see when they look at him anymore.

A year ago, he'd been living in New York with his parents and he'd been relatively popular. Kids at school knew him as the guy  you had to get good with if you wanted something in the school newspaper or the yearbook. And he used to be a social butterfly - went to all the games, the homecoming dances, the picnics, the house parties...

So much has changed since then.

  
  
  


As he's walking home that evening from the bus stop, backpack straps cutting into the bruises that mottle his shoulders, Eddie can't help but wonder what kind of impression he makes on people now.

Can they tell he's struggling at home?

Can they guess that his grades are so good because he's only ever "safe" when he's studying?

When they see how pale his skin is, do they know it's because Grandad Willis won't let him out of the house?

Do people recognize his long sleeves and layered dark shirts as red flags?

When they see his puffy eyes in the morning, do they assume he's been up all night playing video games, or can they tell the bloodshot spiderwebs are a direct result of thinking about Mom's hugs, Dad's hair-mussing, and the family game nights, or the outings to odd art museums, or the yearly trips to Disneyland, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls…

Fuck, is there anything left of the guy he used to be?

What he wouldn't give to go back. 

 

Not to his old life. He's okay with being the reject loser at school with no friends and no social life.

Just, back to a time when his parents were alive.

 

To a time he'd felt loved and protected, safe in his own home.

He'd take any number of Grandad's whippings to spend a day baking with his Dad. 

 

He'd eat a hundred bars of the soap Grandad uses to "wash his mouth out" topped with the hot sauce Grandad likes to pour over the food just because the old man knows Eddie hates it, just to have the opportunity to have a video game matchup against Mom, whose skills at Crash Tag Team Racing had been without equal.

 

A year ago, spending more time with his parents had been the last thing he’d wanted, but loss changes everything. 

Eddie slips into Grandad's old creaky house through the green, paint-chipped door as silently as he can manage. The hinges protest his entry, but he presses on, moving quickly and quietly through the house dead set on making it to his room before - 

 

“Is that you, boy?!” Grandad Willis shouts from his recliner in the living room.

 

The slight quake in Eddie’s frame is not something he has any control over. It’s automatic - like teeth chattering from the cold or sweat beading in the heat. “Y-yes, sir,” Eddie says, voice low and careful as he approaches the doorway. 

 

One time, he made the mistake of shouting his answer from the stairwell. The belting it had earned him ensured he never made that mistake again.

 

Grandad doesn’t look at him right away, his cool gaze glued to the TV screen as he flips through channels. 

 

Eddie’s pretty sure he does it just to let the anticipation build. He  _ likes _ when Eddie’s nervous. 

 

Finally, he settles on a channel and looks up at Eddie. His craggy face gives nothing away. 

 

Most dogs bark a warning before they bite, giving someone the opportunity to back up, back down, show their belly in submission.

 

But a dominant, aggressive dog doesn’t bark. It just sinks its teeth in.

 

“I came home from work about an hour ago,” Grandad says, mildly, stroking the keys on his remote. “After a long day, slaving away at the post office, I came home hungry.”

 

Eddie starts to sweat beneath his double-layered shirt, mind racing as he tries to remember what’s in the fridge. 

 

Without warning, Grandad pulls his arm back and hurls the remote at him head. 

 

It bashes Eddie in the temple, splitting skin, before he can get his arms up. Stunned, he barely manages to catch the end of the remote before it can drop to the floor. Which is so damn lucky. 

 

Over the past couple months, he’s developed an instinct about Grandad and his moods. In this case, he’s sure that if the delicate machinery had broken in this moment, he would’ve gotten blamed for it.

 

“There’s no leftovers in the ice box,” Grandad snarls, starting to rise from his recliner. 

 

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get right to cooking,” Eddie says, struggling to keep his shoulders from hunching as Grandad nears. 

 

All the old man has to do is swing his arm upwards, like he’s going to cuff him upside the head, and Eddie’s shoulders lose the fight. 

 

“Get to it, boy,” the old man says, the curl of his lip betraying his satisfaction at getting Eddie to flinch.

 

“Yes, sir,” Eddie says, because he knows by now that a nod won’t suffice. 

  
  
  
  
  


After dinner, Eddie heads straight for the bathroom. He stands in front of the mirror, begging himself not to open the cabinet. But his fingers are already twitching just from standing in the same spot he’s been in time and time before, stretching back for six months. He wants to reach for the razor. He  _ wants _ to be in control of his own pain. 

 

Fuck Grandad Willis. 

 

This isn’t the old man’s choice. 

 

No, this choice belongs to Eddie. 

 

And he’d rather feel physical pain - rather be writhing on the bed with his arm clutched to his chest and blood spotting his bed sheets  - than to remember his life in New York. The soothing hand on his forehead, the paternal kiss on his cheek, the times mom would drop by his room to show him an origami Youtube video because “if we want an instagrammable Christmas tree, we need to culturally branch out”.

 

He lasts two minutes before he finds the little box of replacement razor blades with questing fingers. 

 

His hand no longer shakes as he presses the blade to an unmarked section of skin just above the crease in his elbow. The relief isn’t immediate. It still hurts, but underneath the pain is burning hatred, self-loathing, and the devastation of remembrance. 

 

The relief is in the control he has over his own body. He chooses to put these scars on his arm. He chooses to make his pain visible, if only to himself. The relief is the adrenaline rush that follows the sting of the blade, and it’s in knowing he’s the one responsible. 

 

He cuts until the pain usurps the bruised-up cut on his forehead from the remote. Until the rush comes roaring through his blood. 

 

And when he lays awake at night, homework completed and tests studied for, he justifies himself with platitudes like “at least I’m not killing brain cells with drugs and alcohol” or “at least I won’t get an STD from this” or “what doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger”.  

  
  
  


Tuesday morning, Eddie’s once again at his locker when he notices the seas parting before the godlike presence that is Everett Winston. 

 

Embarrassingly, it’s a struggle to retain his posture. His shoulders immediately want to level with his ears. Or better yet, he’d prefer to retreat from the situation. Unfortunately, the stupid, reptile part of his brain says, “I’d rather stand up to the bully and get cut down, than run away.” So, he doesn’t move. 

 

In fact, he freezes in place and awaits the inevitable. 

 

Except, today - after 9 or 10 months of getting slammed into his locker every morning - Eddie stands his ground and nothing happens. 

 

With Chance and Beaumont dogging his footsteps, Everett just walks on by.  One step, two steps...six steps past Eddie...and  _ then _ he doubles back.

 

Goddammit. 

 

Everett doesn’t just double back. He gets right up into Eddie’s personal space, leaning in slowly as if to test how close he has to be before Eddie leans away.

 

But fuck Everett Winston. 

 

He pays enough in self-respect, burnt nerves, upset stomach, and blotchy skin for the benefits of a full belly and a roof over his head. He’s not going to give an inch to a bully without getting anything in return. 

 

Even when Winston’s nose is a milimeter away from his, nostrils flaring, sucking in the aroma of Eddie’s fear from right up close, he doesn’t step away. Holding his body rigid in preparation for whatever elbow, punch, or shove that’s coming his way, Eddie meets Winston’s gaze without flinching. 

 

It’s still a shock, though, when Everett tilts his head and inhales deeper. “ **Who hurt you** ?” he asks, eyes narrowed as he meets Eddie’s gaze. 

 

Jaw too loose to form words, Eddie just hums in disbelief. 

 

What kind of question is that?! 

 

And why is he asking it in such a deep voice? 

 

Almost a minute goes by and they’re still staring at each other in silence, when Beaumont nudges his captain with a shoulder. 

 

“Hey, man, we’ve got to pick up our new playbooks. We won’t make it from Coach’s office to first period if we don’t get a’move on.” 

 

Winston grunts unhappily before he allows himself to be herded down the hall by Chance and Beau. And yet, his eyes don’t leave Eddie until he’s around the corner and out of sight. 

  
  
  


And that weird ass “exchange” is only the first in a series. 

 

In the weeks that follow, it seems that every time Eddie turns around, Winston’s either staring, sniffing, or pressing things into his hands. 

 

Usually, it’s food. 

 

“ **Blueberries, for vitamin K** ” or “ **Celery, because fiber is good for you** ” or “ **Here, eat this raw steak. It might put some meat on your bones** ”. The weirdest part is when Winston just continues down the hall without checking to see if Eddie eats what he suspects is a trap. 

 

What good is a prank if you don’t get to see the fruits of your own labor? 

 

But after the first week and a half of throwing the food away, school gossip apparently reaches Winston. 

 

“ **You’re not eating the food I give you,** ” he says one morning. 

 

Eddie scoffs. “Of course not. Why would I eat insects or moldy cheese or whatever the hell else you’ve been trying to feed me?”

 

Winston peels the banana he brought this time and breaks it in half. “ **Pick** ,” he says, offering both palms - half a banana each - for Eddie to choose from.

 

Eyebrows raised high, Eddie glances at Beaumont and Chance loitering in the background. He can’t be the only one who thinks this is odd and ridiculous. “What the hell, man? Why should I pick? I mean, what do you care what I eat?” 

 

“ **You’re too thin.** **_Hungry_ ** ,”  Winston says, even though there’s no chance he can hear Eddie’s empty stomach cramping.

 

He hasn’t eaten in three days because every time he makes a meal out of the raw ingredients in Grandad’s kitchen, the old man shows up and drowns it in hot sauce. Sometimes after school, he wanders through parking lots, looking for coin-operated shopping carts that people were too lazy to return. All he needs is five quarters to buy something out of a vending machine, but he’s had no luck so far.  

 

“How can you tell?” Beaumont asks Winston before Eddie can. “He wears so many clothes. Could be pudgie for all we know.” 

 

With an impatient growl, Winston shoves one half of the banana in his mouth to free up his hand, which he then presses to Eddie’s side without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’. 

 

Shit, his hand is huge, easily spanning from Eddie’s hip to the top of his ribs. 

 

“ **Too many bones sticking out** ,” Winston says, before taking the other half of the banana and shoving it in Eddie’s open mouth. 

 

Eddie considers spitting it out, but it tastes like just plain banana. And, he’s just so hungry…

  
  
  


After that, when Winston gives him food, he eats the food. 

 

It’s never spoiled, never rancid, never not what it says on the packaging. It’s just food. Which only confuses him more. Since when does Everett Winston, of all people, care about Eddie’s diet? 

 

It’s not like he’s treating anyone else like this. He doesn’t go around feeding his friends or other random kids in the hallway. Just Eddie. 

 

And, it’s not always food that he hands him. 

 

Some occasional mornings, it’s bandages and antiseptic, or some Tylenol. And on those occasions, it’s always after an “incident” with Grandad Willis. 

 

But how does he know? How can he tell there’s fresh bruises under Eddie’s clothes? His nostrils flare a lot when he’s in Eddie’s vicinity and he takes deep breaths through his nose, but people can’t smell injuries...right?  

 

In any case, for almost the whole quarter, Eddie’s questions go unanswered.

  
  
  
  


On Thursday evenings, the school keeps its library open till 10 PM to provide a chaperoned space for the peer-tutoring program. So far, it’s the only extracurricular activity Eddie feels comfortable partaking in. Mostly because he’s the Language Arts tutor, and that comes with a number of benefits.

 

Like, even though very few, if any, students show up at his table, he still gets to put it on his college applications.

 

He doesn’t have to be social or outgoing or energetic. 

 

And it gives him some time away from Grandad Willis. 

 

Tonight, though, he might get a few drop-ins, since third-quarter grades posted this morning. There’s nothing quite as galvanizing as the threat of summer school if your grades don’t improve. 

 

Still, Language Arts is one of the easiest classes in school. Unlike math, which you can pretend doesn’t exist 90% of the time, you can’t get away from language. Also, almost every book that could be assigned for homework has a cliffnotes version available on the internet for anyone to read or download.  

 

Unsurprisingly, Eddie is left alone for most of the evening to slowly work through his Chemistry homework. 

 

Its five minutes to 9 when suddenly the chair across the table is pulled out and Everett Winston sits down. 

 

“Uh...science and math tutoring are down on the first floor,” Eddie says, choking down a startled gasp. For such a big guy, Winston sure moves silently. 

 

“ **I don’t want to tutor anyone** ,” Everett says, rifling through his backpack. He pulls out a book of famous short stories and a piece of paper, which he hands to Eddie. 

 

Quirking a brow, Eddie reads the assignment off the page. Both of the short stories listed can be found in summarized and analyzed format online. “I’m not going to do your homework for you,” he says, trying to hand back the paper. 

 

“ **Agreed. You will teach me how to divine meaning from these stories and I will write the essay,** ” Everett says, folding his hands over his book. 

 

He looks so solemn that Eddie can’t help feeling like this is a prank. 

 

“Look, Winston, I don’t appreciate you coming here to - ”

 

“ **Don’t call me Winston.** ” 

 

Eddie snorts, but whatever. “Okay,  _ Everett _ , I’m not going to tolerate - ”

 

“ **Not Everett.** ” 

 

Brow scrunching, Eddie tries, “Rhett?” because he’s pretty sure he’s heard some members of the football team using the nickname.

 

“ **Call me Venom** ,” Winston says, and his face gives nothing away. 

 

A slow burn of irritation starts up Eddie’s neck as he discretely looks around, scanning bookshelves and beneath tables for the camera because, without a doubt, one of Winston’s cronies is probably huddled up somewhere filming the scene to post online. 

 

“This isn’t funny, man,” Eddie mutters, when he fails to spot the shine of a lense amidst the stacks. 

 

“ **No one is laughing** ,” Winston says tilting his head to the side, before pointedly looking down at the paper Eddie’s still holding. 

 

Ok, fine. Let this end up on Youtube. 

 

Eddie doesn’t care. 

 

“Give me the book, Winston,” he says, reaching a hand over to pull on an edge of the large, hard-backed tome. 

 

Except that Winston just rests more weight on his clasped hands and the book doesn’t move. “ **Call. Me. Venom. Or no book.** ” 

 

“Do you want me to help you or not?” Eddie asks, trying not to get pissed. He’s still certain this is a prank. Just like he’s sure it has something to do with doing what Winston wants. 

 

“ **Do you want me to call you by your name, Eddie?** ”

 

“Yes. Obviously.”

 

“ **Then, human courtesy demands that you call me by my preferred name. Which is Venom.** ”

 

“What, you trying out WWE stage names? Did you finally settle on a future in pro-wrestling?" Eddie snarks, hoping that Winston will get the message that he’s not a pushover. Maybe even rethink whatever he’s got planned.

 

But Winston must have the best goddamn poker face. Eyes serious, he says once again, “ **Call me Venom.** ” 

 

“Alright then,  _ Venom _ ,” Eddie says, loud enough that any hidden microphone should definitely pick up some clear audio with his sarcastic tone intact, “let’s get started.” 

 

With an oddly respectful nod, Winston hands him the book and, from there on, the next hour runs like a legitimate tutoring session. 

 

And even though Eddie spends the whole time calling the captain of the football team “Venom”, he can’t find any video evidence online the next morning. At school, there’s no pointing and laughing, no furtive glances, no secretive whispers. 

 

For all intents and purposes, it seems like last night wasn’t a prank. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shortening fuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm approaching the tail end of my obsession. They're usually short-lived because the fandoms I fall into tend to be on the smaller side. Hopefully that translates to faster updates. 
> 
> If you're thought is "nothing much happened in this one" , it's mostly because this and the next chapter felt like they should be one, but then I think it would be too long.

 

Lunch is a miserable time of day when you don’t have anyone to sit with in the cafeteria. It’s hard to even find a seat that doesn’t brush up against some friend group or other. 

 

Eddie’s not sure what other loners do - surely, he’s not the only one - but he refuses to eat his hot-sauce-soggy sandwich in the bathroom, which is the only other place students are allowed during lunch. 

 

It’s stupid and arbitrary that they can’t go outside, can’t go to the school library, can’t wander the halls. Whoever put the restrictions in place must’ve been incredibly paranoid.

 

In any case, today this leaves Eddie standing at the table with all the condiments, napkins, and plastic cutlery. Trying to look purposeful, he fiddles with his sandwich slices, blotting at the sauce-soiled insides with the napkins. Occasionally, he rips a corner and pops it in his mouth, swallowing quickly so the taste doesn’t linger on his tongue. 

 

He’s only a few bites in when a hand clamps down on his shoulder, making him jump.

 

“ **Why are you standing here?** ” Everett asks, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. “ **Your lunch looks unappetizing. More condiments won’t help,** ” he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Without asking, he scoops up Eddie’s sandwich and throws it out.

 

“Hey! You can’t just - ” Eddie stumbles as Winston pulls him over to the football section of the sports table. Okay, so maybe he can just.  

 

It makes Eddie feel slightly better about being manhandled when Winston takes Chance by the scruff of his jacket and deposits him in an adjacent teammate’s lap with only a grunted “ **move over** ”.

 

He takes the seat and pulls Eddie into the one beside him while the rest of the table reshuffles. “ **This is Eddie** ,” he announces to his teammates.

 

Eddie  gets a couple chin nods, “yo”s and “what’s up”s. 

 

He offers his own half-wave, but he can’t help but ask, “Is anyone else weirded out right now?” pointedly raising both eyebrows and tilting his head in Winston’s direction. 

 

Beaumont snorts. “Oh, you have no idea. Venom’s been surprising all of us on a daily basis for a few weeks straight,” he says, tossing an orange in Winston’s general direction, who catches it and immediately places it in front of Eddie, then starts piling food from the loaded tray in front of him onto a plate.

 

“Wait...so, all of you are calling him Venom now?” Eddie almost can’t contain his disbelief when the whole table nods. 

 

“But, why?” he directs the question at Winston as he’s setting a massive plate of food down in front of Eddie. 

 

With a shrug, he says, “ **Like it better.** ” 

 

And that’s apparently enough of a reason for everyone. 

 

“ **Eat** ,” Winston says before Eddie can get a follow-up question out. And, as if sensing Eddie’s instinctive protest - he’s not a goddamn charity case and he doesn’t need Winston (or Venom?) sharing meals with him - he adds, “ **Don’t make me feed you.** ” 

 

Judging by the way Venom taps his fork against his tray, waiting for Eddie to take his first bite, it’s not an empty threat. 

 

Rolling his eyes, Eddie decides to leave “Venom’s” weirdness alone for now and takes a bite. And because he still somewhat remembers how to interact with jocks, he gets the conversation rolling again with questions about their upcoming games, gossip about rival teams, and the upcoming pep rally. 

 

It’s shocking just how nice it feels to be talking to people again. Gratifying to hear the other guys laugh when he inserts a witty comment or shares an anecdote about his old high school’s crazy soccer team. Embarrassingly pleasant when Thomas claps him on the back, or Chase shoots him a thumbs up, or Venom throws an arm across his shoulders.

 

He feels... _ welcome _ , for the first time since he moved here.

 

Fuck, but it’s so hard to keep his cool. Digging nails into his palms, Eddie struggles to stay dry-eyed. The sting helps briefly. It’s odd to think that this feeling of inclusion used to be normal. And now it's making him act like an overly emotional wreck.

 

There's a twitch beside him and beneath the table where no one else can see, Venom suddenly takes his hand, forcing his fingers to uncurl.

 

Startled, Eddie glances over at Venom, who’s purposely not looking at him. His eyes flick over for a second, as if feeling Eddie’s stare.

 

Venom squeezes Eddie’s hand in gentle warning and then lets go, leaving Eddie to wonder, what the hell happened to Everett Winston? 

  
  
  
  


“ **Meet me after school,** ” Venom says, leading Eddie back to his locker after lunch.

“What for?” Eddie asks, still suspicious. Sure, it’s been weeks since the last time he got messed with by anyone from the football team, but it’s hard to trust an overnight personality change.

 

“ **Need help. Studying** ,” Venom adds, like it’s an afterthought. 

 

“I can’t help you with math and science. Only reason I’m getting good grades in those subjects is because so much of the tests are just puking up memorized answers or plugging in numbers to memorized formulas.”

 

Venom snorts. “ **Don’t need help with those. If** **_you_ ** **need help, I can provide it. Language arts, however -** ”

 

Eddie returns the snort. “Yeah, what’s up with that? Since when are you so bad at interpreting short stories?”

 

“ **Interpretation is less about right answers, more about persuading others you’re right. I’m less persuasive now that I used to be, so I have to be more right.** ” 

 

“Than you used to be?” Eddie repeats, eyebrows going high. “What does that mean?”

 

Venom mutters something under his breath that sounds like, “ **Shut up** ,” before telling Eddie, “ **I was a very...** **_cute_ ** **...child. Got away with everything. Anyways, so, you’ll help me.** ” 

 

It doesn’t sound like a question. 

 

“You could use the internet. Look up the answers,” Eddie reminds him, because apparently all the hints he dropped at the last tutoring session went in one ear and out the other. 

 

Venom makes a face and shakes his head. “ **There’s a time to cheat and a time to learn. Only thing on the line is a GPA, so no point in cheating.** ”

 

“Some would say that’s a lot to lose. They’ll kick you off the team if your grades aren’t high enough.” 

 

Shrugging, Venom mutters, “ **Stupid game. No future in it. Winston will understand.** ” 

 

“Winston...you mean your dad?” 

 

Venom blinks a few times. “ **Yes. The father is who I meant.** ” 

 

“The father,” Eddie repeats, backing away from Venom’s towering frame. “Well, the bell’s about to ring so - ” He quickly turns on his heel and starts down the hallway, practically running from Venom and whatever brand of crazy’s gripped him. 

 

“ **See you after school,** ” Venom calls after him. 

 

Eddie just shakes his head and doesn’t turn around. 

 

Even if he wanted to - and he  _ doesn’t _ \- he wouldn’t be able to meet up with Venom. Grandad Willis’s rules don’t allow for short-notice plans. Or  _ any _ plans, probably. Eddie has no idea. Since he moved in, he hasn’t had any plans that didn’t include a library. 

  
  
  
  


After school, Eddie feels eyes burning the back of his neck as he’s getting on the bus. Unsurprisingly, he spots Venom in the parking lot, arms crossed. Staring in his direction. 

 

For the full ten minutes before the buses leave, Venom remains stationary, as if waiting for Eddie to change his mind, which is never going to happen. Even if he wanted to hang out with his “reformed” ex-bully, the disaster waiting for him at home would be enough to dissuade him.

 

Eventually, the bus rumbles to life and Eddie settles more firmly into the seat, taking deep calming breaths to ease some of his anxiety about going “home”.  But it doesn’t really work. With every street, it gets harder to inhale evenly as the pit in his stomach grows in diameter.

 

By the time the bus breaks in front of Eddie’s stop, he’s rigid with tension. Stiff-kneed, he gets to his feet, makes his way down the tight aisle and the couple of steep stairs, before planting himself on the sidewalk, counting the beats in his chest for a few seconds as the door of the bus retracts and the engine roars away. Counting is supposed to help, right? That’s what people in the movies do. Although, they also have paper bags to breathe into. 

 

He’s entirely distracted when a different engine purrs into silence just behind him on the empty street. So he doesn’t pay any mind to the sound of a car door opening and closing, or the crunch of grass nearby, until he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

 

Choking on a scream, Eddie whirls around, fully expecting to see Grandad Willis standing there, mouth twisted in a severe frown. 

 

Instead - surprise, surprise - it’s Venom.

 

“Look, man, I can’t meet up with you today.”  _ Or any day _ , Eddie doesn’t add. “Surprises aren’t tolerated at...my house,” he says, even though he wants no ownership in Grandad’s rundown place in this sleepy, podunk town. 

 

Venom doesn’t respond for a solid minute. Just observes Eddie like he’s a dissected frog from AP Biology. The dude even goes so far as to place two fingers on Eddie’s aorta as if to check his pulse. 

 

Which, of course, makes Eddie flinch. He swats the hand away. 

 

“ **Let me drive you to the place you live** ,” Venom says in a tone that really doesn’t leave much room to say ‘no’. 

 

But Eddie’s head is shaking in rejection before he even consciously registers the question. Because any invitation is probably a bad idea. This one included. The last thing he wants is for Grandad to know who he’s hanging out with. Maybe he’s paranoid, but a part of him is convinced that the old man would use it against him somehow.

 

“ **Why not?** ” Venom asks with sincere curiosity.

 

“It...just wouldn’t be a good idea.”

 

Venom’s gaze flicks down to look at Eddie’s neck again. “ **You’re nervous** .”

 

“Uh...no, I’m not.” 

 

As if he hadn’t said anything, Venom continues with his next conjecture. “ **You live with the person who hurts you.** ”

 

“Wh-what? I’m not hurt. Do I look hurt?” 

 

Venom strokes along the inside of Eddie’s clothed arm, where raised blue-black marks commemorate all the recent squeezes, pinches, forearm tugs, and other violent gestures Grandad Willis has treated him to. None of which is nearly as bad as some of the other things he’s done. Hardly worth mentioning, all things considered. 

 

“ **Let me help** ,” Venom says, again more demand than request. 

 

“You can’t help,” Eddie grits out, harsher than he means to, but deadly serious. Glaring at Venom, he tries to telepathically transmit the message, “Leave it alone,” as he says it outloud and he’s, thankfully, rewarded with Venom’s confusion and doubt, his proud stance deflating a bit. “I don’t need help,” Eddie says, clear and confident - so, the exact opposite of what he feels - and starts walking away.

 

Behind him, he hears Venom sit down on the hood of his car and a glance backwards reveals a ponderous expression on his face. As if he can’t make heads or tails of Eddie’s response. 

 

Over-privileged, naive moron. He probably has no idea just how badly he could fuck up Eddie’s life by getting involved. 

 

Because, yeah, sure, Grandad Willis is a constant source of misery and pain, but he doesn’t have guns in the house. He’s never gone so far as to burn Eddie with cigarettes or cut him with sharp implements. For the most part, it’s beatings, hot sauce, lots of yelling, and plastic, flying projectiles.

 

It’s bad enough to make Eddie anxious, but not enough to have him thinking drastic thoughts. He’s got a year left to put up with it and then he’s free. 

 

But if Venom gets involved, Eddie might end up in the veritable powder keg of misery that is a group home. People don't usually end up in group homes for good reasons. The kids mostly come in with major damage, raging teenage hormones, and less-than-happy backgrounds. 

 

Eddie looked into the alternatives as soon as he found out Grandad was a big fan of corporal punishment. The horror stories he’d discovered down that rabbit hole had left him feeling grateful that Grandad Willis was willing to take him in. Between the angry teenagers, underpaid caretakers, and check-collecting foster parents, there was a lot of potential for abuse in the foster care system. 

 

Still, as Eddie tip-toes into the house, it’s hard to focus on his own conviction that this is a better situation than a whole host of others he could’ve found himself in. 

 

Especially when the first thing he hears is "you _stupid_ sunovabitch!" and Grandad's heavy boots coming down the stairs.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everett once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This winter, in midsight, is shaping up to be rather unfortunate. 
> 
> Also, where this went is very far from where I expected it'd go. 
> 
> And thanks for taking time to leave comments. They're really helpful, both as motivation and as a litmus test of "Is this boring yet? Are any feelings being generated by this plotline?" Etc.

Grandad reaches the ground floor, expression twisted up in anger, bitterness, and disgust. He yanks Eddie by the hair and pulls him towards the kitchen.

 

As soon as they’re through the door, Eddie can smell the problem.

 

But Grandad brings him right up close to the trashcan and covers Eddie’s mouth with his hand. “Go ahead. Take a whiff. What does that smell like to you?”

 

Wafting out from the confines of the half-full trashcan is a distinct odor of fish guts and onions.

 

“To me, it smells like laziness,” the old man says, tripping Eddie so he lands right next to it. Then, he picks up the can and dumps it over Eddie’s head. 

 

A hail of slime, fishbones, used coffee grounds, gloops of mayonnaise, and rotten vegetable slop rains down, drenching Eddie’s hair and sliding down the ends to fall in chunks onto his face and clothes. Straining every ounce of self-control, he tries to keep the gagging and the dry heaving from turning into a spray of vomit. 

 

“Clean up this mess,” the old man growls, stalking out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, the TV comes on in the living room. 

 

Careful not to breathe in, Eddie picks himself off the ground and finds his way to the kitchen sink with his eyes closed as some of the slop drips down his eyelids. Blindly, he finds the dish soap and scrubs at his face and hair as quickly as he can, scared that at any moment, good old Grandad will come roaring back in.

 

Thankfully, he’s left alone to scour the majority of the gunk off himself and then the floor. As he douses the tiles with Mr. Clean, Eddie makes a mental note to check the trash every morning, so this doesn’t happen again. 

 

It’s one of over two dozen rules Eddie’s comprised throughout his stay with Grandad Willis, but sometimes it feels like wasted effort. Because maybe, no matter how many unspoken rules he follows, the old man will always find something to punish him for if the mood to beat on someone strikes him.

 

Once the kitchen’s back to being spotless, Eddie takes out the trash, dumps the bucket of soiled water in the toilet, cleans the bucket so it won’t smell, and goes to take a shower.

 

As he stands under the spray scrubbing roughly at his skin, Eddie can still smell fish guts and onions. Hopefully, the pungence is just stuck in his memory, and not on him.

 

It’s not safe to take long showers, so he’s forced to speed through, but by the time he gets out, he’s fairly certain that the odor is gone. 

 

For a solid minute, as he tidies the bathroom, he’s convinced he’s safe. That he’ll just go to his room and do homework for a few hours, maybe even sneak something out of the fridge, and go to sleep with no new bruises.

 

Then, he opens the door.

 

Grandad’s standing outside waiting for him, a belt looped around his hand. 

  
  
  
  


In the morning, Venom’s at the bus stop, looking like he never left. He watches Eddie come down the street, expression growing darker as the distance between them shrinks.

 

Eddie immediately straightens up and evens his stride. “What?” he asks, when he’s close enough, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

 

Venom just cocks a brow as his eyes linger, first on Eddie’s upper arm, then below the belt.

 

“Like what you see?” Eddie jokes nervously, resisting the paranoid need to check his sleeves for blood splotches. 

 

“ **Come here** ,” Venom says, crooking a finger.

 

“I’m not a dog,” Eddie mutters, but even when he’s being nice, Venom’s kind of intimidating. His tall, sportsman’s build and the serious expression are enough to convince Eddie to close the gap.

 

Reaching out a hand slowly, Venom cups  his tricep, fingers smoothing a spot on Eddie’s long-sleeved shirt, right over a fresh set of cuts. “ **You did this** ,” he says, a hint of a question in his voice. Room for denial.

 

Eddie considers calling it an accident. Is about to say just that, when he realizes, “Wait...how do you know I’m injured?” 

 

Venom’s eye twitches as he shifts from foot to foot. 

 

“Do you have cameras set up at my house, or something?” Eddie asks, taking a good step back, suspicious.

 

With a sigh, Venom fish hooks a finger through one of Eddie’s belt loops and reels him back in. “ **Heightened sense of smell,** ” he says, inhaling deep, through his mouth. “ **You’d be surprised just how much I know about you from smell alone.** ” 

 

“Sounds like something a serial killer would say,” Eddie says, as the school bus rounds the corner, only a block between it and them. 

 

“ **I’ll drive you to school.** ” Venom tows him to the passenger-side door.

 

“Wouldn’t want to stink up your car. Also, as believable as a super nose sounds, I’m not convinced you don’t have my house under surveillance,” Eddie says, trying to unhook Venom’s finger from the belt loop. 

 

“ **You haven’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday. Come with me and we’ll get breakfast. You’ll have better concentration in your morning classes. Better grades on your tests.** ” Venom unhooks his finger. “ **Or, get on the bus and be alone. The choice is yours.** ” 

 

All of a sudden, Eddie feels like he’s standing at a crossroad, especially when the bus pulls up to the stop. There’s only a second to decide. 

 

_ Get on the bus and be alone _ .

 

Whether intentional or not, it sounded like Venom would give up on him. Stop handing him food and bandages, stop pulling him into his circle. Eddie wouldn’t have to worry about his secrets getting out. Could stop wondering what happened to the old Everett Winston, since it wouldn’t matter anymore.  

 

Or he could go with Venom into an unknown future. A future he only has partial control over, with Venom helping to shape it with willfulness and not-questions. His secrets could get exposed and, worst case scenario, he could end up who knows where. A group home, or sharing a house with a pedophile...

 

He lets the bus drive away. 

 

Which might be a mistake, or the best decision he’s ever made. 

 

Venom opens the car door and holds it open for him. “ **Good choice. I won’t let you fall.** ” 

 

“That’s some odd wording. Pretty sure I’m standing upright,” Eddie says as he gingerly gets in.

 

“ **You’ve lost perspective** ,” Venom says, hopping into the driver’s seat. He starts the car and steers it onto the empty street before settling his left hand at the back of Eddie’s neck. “ **You have more wounds than the ones you made yourself.** ” 

 

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond to that. Swallowing hard, he says nothing. 

 

“ **You’re not safe at home.** ” 

 

“Are you making guesses? Because, I’d rather you didn’t.”

 

“ **Not a guess.** ” Venom’s fingers tighten. Dig in. 

 

Eddie’s pretty sure, it should hurt, but it doesn’t. In fact, goosebumps run down his arm, euphoria sweeping through the trunk of his body and down into his limbs. For a brief moment, he feels...weird. 

 

Perfect. 

 

Penetrated. 

 

Not alone. 

 

A soothing balm washes over his wounds and into his core. 

 

He feels so good that he almost doesn’t hear Venom when he says, “Quit being so destructive. Get your shit together, dude...can’t take this thing bein’ inside m-”

 

Blinking heavily, Eddie tries to focus, but his head’s all hazy.

 

“...so fucking pervasive...don’t get to make any decisions, even though it’s my body...won’t leave me for you until you quit cut - ” Like tape torn out of a VCR, Venom chokes on air and stops talking.

 

Slowly, Eddie surfaces as if from a trance, his muddled brain trying to make sense of the past few minutes, but all he can manage to say is an intelligent, “Huh?”

 

“ **Nothing. Ignore that.** ” Roughly, Venom shakes his head and lets his arm drop. “ **Fast food? Or grocery store?** ”

 

Eddie can’t remember the last time he went to a fast food place. His parents had gotten on the Healthy Eating Bandwagon early. In keeping with the weirdness of today, he says, “How about Mickey D’s?” 

 

“ **Whatever you want, Eddie** ,” Venom says in his stupid, deep voice, squeezing his leg. 

  
  
  
  


They get their food through the Drive-In and, with Venom’s rather reckless driving, manage to be in front of the school with ten minutes to spare. 

 

“Aren’t you going to park?” Eddie asks, shoving the last hashbrown in his mouth.

 

“ **Busy today. No time for school** ,” Venom says, reaching across Eddie to shove the door open for him. With a sharp whistle, he summons Beaumont and Chase and wordlessly lifts his eyebrows. 

 

Which apparently means a helluva lot to Chase. “Of course, man. You don’t even have to mention it,” he says, holding a hand out to Eddie.

 

“Uh...pretty sure I can get out of a car without help,” Eddie says, standing easily. 

 

Too easily. 

 

What the fuck? 

 

His ass and the backs of his legs painlessly straighten beneath him. And when he lifts his book bag onto a shoulder, his skin stretches without reopening any cuts. In fact, he’s utterly pain-free. His eyes find Venom’s. “What  _ even _ ?!” he asks, a subconscious part of him certain that he doesn’t have to explain his question.

 

Venom - because he’s still a dick at heart, apparently - just shrugs. “ **Have faith** ,” is all he says, before peeling out of the school parking lot. 

 

Eddie watches him go, a knot of apprehension forming in his stomach. 

 

It’s not until Beaumont’s meaty hand finds his shoulder that Eddie returns to the present. 

 

“Come on, Ed. First period’s a-waitin’,” Beau says, steering him into the school as Chase lopes beside them.

 

“Since when do you speak fluent eyebrow?” Eddie asks his two brawny companions, in lieu of anything more pathetic like,  _ Are you really going to drag around dead weight just ‘cause Lord of the Footballs quirked his mighty brow _ , or,  _ Aren’t you afraid  of being seen with me?  _

 

Chase quirks a grin. “Dude, do you have any idea how often he talks about you? Those eyebrows don’t need no explaining when it comes to you.” 

 

A snort is all Eddie can muster in light of the ridiculousness Chase is spouting. Besides the tutoring session, he’s barely exchanged more than half-a-day’s conversation with Venom, if that. 

 

And yet…

 

So many weird things have happened lately. Like Everett changing his name to Venom, talking at a deeper register, handing  _ Eddie _ , of all people, food and bandages, asking to be tutored in Language Arts, inviting him to lunch, driving him to school. All of it is out of character. 

 

And speaking of weird things...Eddie can’t understand why his legs aren’t on fire. All the beltings he’d taken in the past had left him gritting his teeth the next day, and this had been the worst one so far. 

 

Before they can pass by the bathrooms, Eddie ducks away from Chase and Beaumont, jerking a thumb at the swinging door to the Men’s. “Be right back.” 

 

“Hurry up,” Chase warns. “Otherwise, we’ll be late.” 

 

“You guys don’t have to wait up.” 

 

Beaumont scoffs, like the very suggestion is preposterous, while Chase rolls his eyes. “Just be quick, dude.” 

 

But Eddie’s too distracted by the lack of pain to be making any promises. He slips into the Men’s room and takes the stall furthest from the entrance. Immediately, he jerks his black sweatpants down and massages his lower half with questing fingers.

 

All the places where his skin split beneath Grandad’s belt? Aren’t there. 

 

The tangible heat of swollen flesh along his upper thighs? Isn’t there. 

 

_ Nothing’s _ there.  

 

Just clear, undamaged epidermis.

 

_ WHAT. THE. FUCK.  _

 

Goddamn magic. 

 

Venom is goddamn MAGIC.

 

And Eddie would very much like an explanation.

  
  
  
  


Except, Venom doesn’t appear in any of his classes. 

 

Nor is he at lunch.

 

For a brief moment, Eddie figures this will leave him hanging out at the condiments stand, until Chase and Beaumont arrive to disabuse him of the notion. 

 

“You sure you want me listening in on your super secret football chatter?” Eddie asks, trying to give them an out as they lead him towards their table. 

 

“Nah, man. It’s our mission to get you in on the ground floor, turn you over to the darkside,  _ before _ you become a member of the press once more.” Chase elbows him, teasingly. 

 

With a dismissive hum, Eddie immediately rejects the fantasy of joining the school paper again. Grandad wouldn’t allow it. But to preserve the bantering mood, he says, “You should be careful who you invite to the darkside. Otherwise, you might find your secrets getting printed in the gossip column, or your most embarrassing photos immortalized in the class yearbook.” 

 

Beaumont snorts. “Dude, methinks you’re already on the darkside.” 

 

Deepening his voice and filtering it through his hand, Eddie says, “I am called Lord Vader. I see through the lies of the Jedi. I do not fear the dark side as you do.” It’s embarrassingly gratifying to hear a few chuckles.

 

“Is that a direct quote?” Someone down the table asks. 

 

“I think so.”

 

“Wanna bet on it?”

 

“Oh, let’s do a quote-off!” 

 

And all of a sudden, the rest of lunch turns into a game, the footballers (and Eddie) all keeping track of how many Star Wars quotes they get right with chopped carrots and peas. 

 

A few times, Eddie’s startled by his own laughter as it so effortlessly tumbles out. Lightening the load on his shoulders. Pulling his feet from the mire. It’s kind of miraculous. 

 

And, even though he’s not here, Venom is doubtlessly the person he has to thank for the experience. Maybe this is the result of his direct control over his team, the players taking orders from their captain to keep Eddie entertained and out of trouble. Or maybe it’s a byproduct of his team noticing Venom’s change in behavior in regards to Eddie and making an effort to join in, show support, help in the effort. In either case, it’s just another example of Eddie’s Life-After-Venom, and he can’t help the blossom of gratefulness growing petals in his gut. 

  
  
  


At lunch, the blossom grows petals. 

At dinner, it grows thorns. 

  
  
  


As he comes up the walkway in front of Grandad’s house and mounts the porch steps, Eddie’s attention is hyperfocused on the house, ears straining for the sound of footsteps, eyes scanning for a telltale shift of curtains in the windows. He’s so busy looking for minute, clandestine signs of trouble that he misses the most obvious one, parked at the curb in front of the house. 

 

As always, Eddie approaches the  front door carefully, praying the creaky porch doesn’t give him away. He’s barely got his fingers around the door knob when it moves beneath his hand, pressure on the other side of the wood forcing it clockwise. 

 

Panic freezes him right in the path of oncoming trouble.  

 

As the door swings inward, Eddie flinches, expecting to be met with violence. Instead, the person barreling out of the house is… “Venom?!” 

 

The taller boy flinches. “Don’t call me that, dipsh - Eddie. I-I’m goin’ back to my real name again,” he says, the growl he’d recently developed absent from his voice. 

 

“Uh, okay then. Everett.” 

 

Winston nods with a relieved breath. 

 

“So, what were you doing in my Grandad’s house?” 

 

“I was…” Everett does a full body shiver, then seems to think better of what he was going to say. “Look, you can ask yer  _ Grandad _ ,” he spits with no small level of vitriol. 

 

He stalks past Eddie and down the walkway to his car, but instead of getting in and driving off, he turns to look back at the house. A little wide-eyed, he meets Eddie’s questioning gaze. “Just want you to know, I didn’t have a choice. Still don’t. My dad made a mistake. Wasn’t payin’ attention when he shoulda been, but he can’t fix this.  _ No one _ can fix this,” he says, cryptically. 

 

Then, getting into his car, he calls out, “See you at lunch,” before driving off.

 

Leaving Eddie with a dozen new questions for Ven...Everett. 

 

Most pressing of them: 

 

What business did he have with Grandad?

 

What mood did he leave the old man in?

 

And, is it safe to go inside?

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may or may not surprise you to know that this story was not supposed to travel this track. I occasionally make impulsive decisions that I then need to work around, but I'm back to having a plan. We'll see if that helps to increase my productivity.
> 
> What has certainly helped is all the feedback, so thank you for taking the time to leave some ^_^

Heart in his throat, Eddie crosses the threshold and closes the front door behind him.

 

The house is still.

 

Silent. 

 

Even the floor boards are holding their breath.

 

But nothing happens.

 

The anticipation is brutal. Eddie feels certain that as soon as he takes a step, Grandad will pop out from around a corner. Unless,  Everett did something entirely stupid, like call Child Protective Services. But then they’d still be here, investigating. Wouldn’t they?

 

Slowly, he tracks into the house, finding the quietest boards from memory as he makes his way towards his room. He’s almost there when the bang of a pot from the kitchen makes him jump.

 

So, Grandad is home.

 

Eddie’s suddenly gripped with indecision.

 

Nine times out of ten, it’s his job to make dinner. Very rarely, the old man gets take out or decides to guzzle Hennessy on an empty stomach in lieu of a home-cooked meal. 

 

Every part of Eddie wants to ignore Grandad’s presence. Just hole up in his room and try to bask in the last tendrils of good feeling he’d accumulated throughout the day. But it’s incredibly risky to give into that temptation. 

 

It’s not like there’s a lock on his door.

 

It’s not like he can run away to a friend’s house for a time.

 

He’s stuck here with a tempermental, abusive asshole, who’ll go off at some point.

 

Really, the only question is, does he want to deal with it now or later?

 

Eddie’s about to turn back to the kitchen when another pot clatters against linoleum. The bang is followed by a snarl.

 

No. Nope. Nu-uh.

 

Fuck that.

 

Eddie retreats to his room, carefully shutting the door behind him and, for twenty minutes, he lays on his bed, trying to convince himself that he’s safe. At peace. Everything is going to be alright. Today will be a good day from beginning to end.

 

The tension, however, never leaves his shoulders. He’s concentrating so hard on managing his unwieldy feelings that he entirely fails to notice how the scent of pasta suddenly starts to permeate the air or that the house is warmer by a couple degrees.

 

It’s not until a gentle knock on his door violently startles Eddie upright that he consciously notices the changes. Did Grandad…make dinner?

 

He waits with bated breath for the old man to barge in.

 

A minute passes.

 

Then two.

 

Finally, the gentle knock comes again. 

 

What the fuck?

 

On shaky legs, Eddie finds his way to the door and opens it, wondering if this is some new kind of mind game. 

 

The old man’s patiently waiting for him on the other side. He doesn’t say anything. Just gestures for Eddie to follow him. 

 

Silently, he does.

 

Down the hall and into the kitchen.

 

The table is already set, two plates piled high with cheese-covered sauce-slathered pasta. 

 

Grandad pulls out a chair and gestures Eddie into it before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. For all intents and purposes, it seems like the old man wants to eat dinner together. 

 

Hesitantly, Eddie sits down, mostly because he doesn’t have a choice here. Studying his plate, immediately he's suspicious of the red tomato paste. Normally, Grandad doesn't try to hide the fact that he's dousing Eddie's food with near-inedible amounts of capsaicin.

 

But today doesn't seem to be a normal day. The way the old man's staring at him - with no visible malice or expectant glee - only serves to highlight the oddness of this situation. To be in such close proximity without any yelling, glaring or hitting...it’s enough to make Eddie’s hair stand on end. In his mind, a hundred possibilities sprout up.

 

Maybe there’s Carolina Reaper in the pasta sauce?

 

Maybe there’s mealworms mixed in with the noodles?

 

Maybe there’s slivers of glass in the food?

 

Maybe it’s drugged?

 

Taking up his fork beneath Grandad’s watchful gaze, Eddie tries to maneuver his shaking hand to twist a band of pasta onto the metal prongs. He manages to spin a small portion but, before he can convince himself to put it in his mouth, Grandad steels the fork out of his loose grip. 

 

With a hum of appreciation, he sucks the noodles off the end. Then hands Eddie a clean fork. 

 

Stunned at the implied reassurance in the action, Eddie blurts out, “What happened today?” His body freezes in retroactive panic, but the question’s already out there. No way to take it back. 

 

Turns out he doesn’t need to regret it. Grandad’s only reaction is a raised brow of feigned confusion. Though the non-answer is a cop out, it’s also a sign that the old man’s willing to engage. 

 

The burn of curiosity outweighs the risk of a beating for Eddie. If today’s going to be weird, then may as well make it weirder. Clearing his throat, he asks, “What was Ven...Everett Winston doing here?”

 

Grandad’s eyes widen comically and, oddly enough, he looks kind of...young. Or at least, younger than Eddie remembers. There seem to be fewer wrinkles. The bags under his eyes don’t look as dark.

 

Is it because, all the other times Eddie’s been this close, those were “bad” moments? Just how old is Grandad anyways? Fifty? Sixty? What do people usually look like at that age?

 

Because right now? In this moment? He doesn’t look much older than dad was when he died. Which is weird. Shouldn’t he look at least twenty years older?

 

Suddenly, Grandad chokes on a roll of pasta. Coughing and hacking to clear his airway, the old man stands up and bends forward, to ease the food back up his throat and away from his trachea.

 

Indecisive, Eddie hovers halfway out of his seat, wondering if he should help, but the  _ look _ Grandad gives him leaves him quailing back into his chair.   

 

Twisted, angry, hateful. Deepened with noticeably fewer wrinkles than Eddie remembers seeing in such moments,  it stays there for a few long seconds as Grandad’s spits the pasta out in a mauled chunk. 

Almost long enough to have Eddie considering a retreat from the kitchen. 

 

And then it fades away. 

 

The old man just sits down and pats the hand Eddie still has on the table. Wordlessly, he gestures for Eddie to eat.

 

And for all that Eddie usually has a healthy amount of self-preservation, a stronger frisson of  _ EVERYTHING IS WRONG _ has him spitting out a forceful, “No.” 

 

The eyebrows climb up Grandad’s face. 

 

“Why was Everett here?”

 

No answer.

 

“Why are we having dinner together? For the first time? Today, of all days?” Eddie asks, frustration making his voice rise.

 

The old man frowns, but there’s guilty knowingness in his eyes.

 

“Why are you being nice to me? Knocking on my door. Waiting for me to open it. Making dinner  _ without _ hot sauce or flaming peppers?” 

 

Again. No. Fucking. Answer. 

 

“WHY AREN’T YOU SAYING ANYTHING?!”

 

And, holy shit, but Grandad ducks his head down around his shoulders like a scolded child. His expression again seems to flicker oddly. Microexpressions of rage and disgust flitting across a more constant guilty visage. 

 

“Please,” Eddie begs, voice hoarse. “I...I don’t know whether to be afraid or not. Just... _ please _ , tell me something. Tell me  _ any _ thing.” 

 

Because, honestly, he can’t stand it. Hates the way his bones are quaking, unsure whether he should hide under the table to avoid a beating or relax into the tepid peace of this odd day. Hates the smoldering curiosity setting off little sparks of adrenaline that add to the quake. 

 

He’s always hated confusion. Unanswered questions leave a burning sensation in his throat. He wants to ask, to dig in, to set the world right and make it make sense. He wants an explanation, dammit! 

 

Not that he expects to get one. He’s used to being disappointed. Particularly by this man - this virtual stranger that shares his late father’s last name. 

 

But Grandad swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. All he says are two words. 

 

“ **Hello, Eddie.** ” In a voice too deep to be Grandad’s. A voice too smooth for his age. A voice too recently familiar. From just this morning, in fact.  

 

It’s a voice Eddie’s started to associate with surprise and caring. A voice that’s asked after his well being and been a precursor to gifts of bandages and food. 

 

A voice that just this morning BELONGED TO EVERETT WINSTON. 

 

What the everloving fuck. 

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Slowly, Eddie starts to lean away from the table, scooting the chair back at a glacial pace, eyes locked with “Grandad”’s. 

 

Feeling a little out of his mind, he hesitantly says, “H-hello, Venom,”  every part of him hopeful that he’ll see confusion reflected in the old man’s gaze. 

 

But “Grandad” doesn’t correct or question him. Instead, his chin dips in acknowledgement.

 

Holy shit, what does that mean?

 

Is he possessed by a ghost? 

 

Is a demon wearing his skin? 

 

Or, maybe it’s like  _ Invasion of the Bodysnatchers _ ? Is the world in the process of being colonized by aliens?

 

In any case, all of those are terrible, horrifying, no-good options that leave his heart racing, palms starting to sweat, and muscles twitching under the overwhelming impulse to run. To get away, create distance, make as much space between him and this situation, because he doesn’t want to be next. 

 

First it was Everett, then it was Grandad. He doesn’t know what it means, and for once, he’s willing to let his questions go unanswered as long as he can get away. 

 

His legs shift to one side, angling towards the door.

 

But before he can throw himself sideways out of the chair, a black, clawed hand clamps down on his wrist while ropes of black travel up his forearm, pinning it to the table. “ **Calm down, Eddie.** ” 

 

Easier said than done.

 

He tries to jerk his hand away, but he may as well be glued to the table. Venom’s grip doesn’t give an inch. Which only makes his panic climb, tightening his throat, laboring each breath.

 

“ **Hush, Eddie. Relax** .” Venom stands, rounding the table. He pulls Eddie to his feet and tucks him under his arm in a loose hug.  There’s still no option to move away, Venom’s huge, clawed hand circling his wrist, keeping him tethered to Not-Grandad. 

 

The forced hug shouldn’t help. After all, a hug from Grandad would have left him in a panic even before he’d been taken over by some kind of supernatural intelligence.

 

And yet, Eddie feels like he’s being infected with relaxation one muscle at a time, the tension leaving him and slowly being replaced by warmth and familiar euphoria. 

 

Perfect. 

Complete.

No longer alone.

 

“You’re manipulating me,” Eddie hums without accusation, too artificially happy and mellow to care as he disjointedly wonders if this is what being drunk feels like.

 

“ **It’s only working because you and I fit like a lock and key** ,” Venom rumbles.

 

Which is so ridiculously discomfiting given that it’s Grandad’s face saying it. And creepy enough that it helps Eddie focus.

 

Pushing away, he tries to increase the space between them, but Venom only lets him go so far, fingers refusing to release their loose grip from the back of his neck.

 

“What are you?” Eddie demands, fearless under Venom’s influence. 

 

The answer comes through in a series of images. 

 

A cratered landscape, desolate and lush in equal measure, full of thriving collectives.

 

A huge metal tube gently setting on the outskirts of Venom’s collective.

 

Identical , monochromatic beings stepping forth from the bowels of the metal tube.

 

A noxious fog swelling across the valley that leaves Venom slowly sinking into black unconsciousness.

 

Waking up surrounded by glass that is pumped full of those same noxious fumes every time he starts to stir.

 

Fire and twisted metal. His glass cage scooped up before the fire can consume him.

 

A sterile lab, humans in white coats, bunnies with white coats, experiments.

 

An endless pattern emerges until one man storms into a session to speak with one of the humans on the other side of the glass. He speaks with great gestures, then sags against a console when he gets a response. As he fidgets, he hits a button that releases the door to the chamber.

 

There’s an image missing in the sequence because what he sees next is a close up view of the control room. Everyone except the man who pushed the button is crumpled on the floor and he gets a sense of satisfied hunger from Venom. 

 

Venom places himself in the man he left standing, but it’s an itchy fit. Tolerating the discomfort, he deletes the lab footage, then strolls out the door. 

 

For lack of a place to go, he drives to the man’s home, where he finds other options for Hosts. The older female is itchier. The younger male is tolerable, with greater vitality. More maleable. It takes a week to convince the older male that Venom doesn’t exist. That he’s not real. To lull him into calmness so that he can switch Hosts without consequence. 

 

That’s how he ends up in Everett, who leads him to Eddie. 

 

The images stop.

 

Blinking away the familiarity of all those scenes with some difficulty - they almost feel like they belong to him, like they’re memories instead of new information, which is unacceptable in Eddie’s book - he summarizes, “So, you’re a space alien.” He reaches for shock. Horror.  _ Anything _ , but the ridiculous mellow, happiness. And yet, no dice. With Venom infecting him with positive feelings, the panic doesn’t come. 

 

He moves on to the more pressing question.  “Why didn’t you stay with the Winstons?” Because why the hell is a space alien in his house, wearing Grandad like a skin suite? The old man’s a serious downgrade from Everett Winston. Particularly, it seems, in the compatibility department. 

 

For all that Eddie doesn’t know how to navigate whatever connection Venom sent his thoughts along, the thing is still open. He doesn’t have to apply too much focus to recognize the old man’s on the line too. Struggling and writhing in the back, gritting his teeth and spitting insults and curses that echo distantly towards Eddie. 

 

“ **Because, I found** **_you_ ** ,” Venom says, with odd reverence. “ **Couldn’t stay knowing what could be.** ” 

 

It’s a terrible answer. Explains nothing. There should be a million questions popping into Eddie’s head right about now, but, for the life of him, he can’t think clearly with all the “happy-happy-joy-joy” that’s bouncing around the walls of his mind. 

 

Half-heartedly, he tries to pull out of Venom’s reach with no success. With a huff of frustration, he asks, “What do you want with me?” 

 

“ **Nothing yet** ,” is his cryptic answer.

 

“Ok...then, what do you want with Grandad?”

 

“ **Preferably? To eat him. Can’t yet, though. Don’t want you to suffer the consequences.** ” 

 

The only thing Eddie hears is, “YOU EAT PEOPLE?!” Finally, a bit of shock and horror manages to light up his system, giving him the motivation to violently jerk away.

 

Holy shit, the crash is brutal. For an endless moment, it feels like everything good in the world died and Eddie’s been left to face all the bad things leftover. Alone. 

 

Thank fuck, his brain normalizes pretty quick, so that he’s not dazed when evading Venom’s shaking hand. 

 

“Wh-what’s wrong with you?” he asks, startled by the whimper that follows their separation. 

 

Sucking in a breath, Venom shakes his head and ignores the question, addressing instead, “ **Humans eat meat.** **_You_ ** **eat meat. Some humans even eat other humans. Why are you so shocked** ?” 

 

Eddie’s prepared to argue that eating humans is not normal, not  _ acceptable _ , and justifiably terrifying...except...all the arguments that come to mind only make sense from a human perspective. People shouldn’t eat people, because rules, empathy, societal taboo, internal shame, culture, etc. But not all humans would be convinced by those arguments, let alone an alien. 

 

He doesn’t know the statistics, but he’s pretty sure he’s seen documentaries about places in the world where people have eaten (or maybe still eat) other people. And there’ve been documented cases of people surviving disaster situations by consuming human flesh. 

 

To Venom, what even  _ is _ a human? Do they rank higher than other animals of the world? Can he live inside trees or fungi? Does he differentiate at all between life forms? 

 

Without knowing any of that, the only question that really matters at the end of the day is, “Are you planning to eat me?” 

 

“ **Never.** ” The answer is instant and visceral.

 

“Well...good,” Eddie says and slowly sits down to finish his dinner.

 

A hesitant Venom joins him and happily answers Eddie’s questions about his nature, his planet, other symbiotes.

 

The information doesn’t necessarily ease Eddie’s mind but, that night, he falls asleep faster than any other night since he’s been under Grandad’s roof. 

  
  
  
  


More practical questions come up in the morning.

 

As Venom presents him breakfast - the sight of a full steaming plate of fluffy eggs and braised mushrooms, has Eddie tearing up - he asks, “Are you going to work?” 

 

Venom pauses, eyes going distant before he comes back with a huff of annoyance. “ **Deliveries?** ”

 

Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “You can...read his  _ mind _ ?!” 

 

A flicker of unbridled fury crosses the old man’s face before it’s subsumed by confusion. “ **Humans too strongly cling to notions of privacy.** ” 

 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Eddie says with a snort. “I mean, could you imagine if the world was more transparent? Although, I guess if that was the case, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to be in the future. I’d be out job prospects if bad guys admitted everything they were doing wrong publicly.” 

 

Venom’s sudden grin is a little scary. His eyes are gleaming.

 

“What?”

 

“ **When the time comes, we will be** **_amazing_ ** **.** ”

 

“ _ We _ ?”

 

His only response is a wink as Venom shoves a mushroom in Eddie’s mouth. “ **Eat your breakfast.** ”

 

Eddie tries to be annoyed but the food has him salivating. It’s too hard to be moody when the Space Symbiote is fussing over him - patting his hair into order, bundling him into a warmer hoodie, reminding him to drink the herbal tea he places in front of him. 

 

“ **Brush your teeth** ,” he says, after they’ve finished eating and the table’s been cleared away.

 

Backpack already perched on a shoulder, Eddie quirks a brow. “Aren’t you taking mother-henning a little far?”

 

“ **It seems that way to you now. Give it time.** ” 

 

“You’re just full of terrible answers,” Eddie mutters, side-stepping Venom in a wide arch on his way to the bathroom. 

 

They meet back at the door.

 

“Uh...don’t you need a coat?” he asks, eyeing Venom’s loose, short-sleeved shirt.

 

“ **Not cold.** ” 

 

“What about...the old man?” Eddie stumbles trying to say Grandad but the word got stuck in his throat. The last thing he wants to do is claim any familial tie to the punch-happy geezer.

 

“ **The body will function the way I tell it to.** ” He offers a hand, palm-up for Eddie to take. 

 

It’s hot to the touch. 

 

“Whatever you say.” 

 

“ **Get in the car** ,” Venom says, pulling him back by a backpack loop when Eddie starts heading towards the bus stop. 

 

“Uh...I know I don’t exactly have friends at that school - ”

 

“ **Winston** ,” Venom reminds him.

 

“Yeah, sure, but other than the people you threatened or persuaded into being my friends, I haven’t really been feeling social enough to make any on my own.”

 

“ **You won over the friends of Winston. I felt their thoughts. They genuinely liked you. So, you have friends. Nothing wrong with you, Eddie.** ” 

 

“Look, I don’t want to argue about a point I wasn’t trying to make. I’m just saying, even though I don’t have a reputation to protect, or an image to maintain, not sure I want to be dropped off at school by the old man most people in this small town probably recognize from times they saw him shouting at a waitress, arguing with a bank teller, or hitting on an underaged cashier.” 

 

Venom’s eyes narrow. 

 

Eddie can almost hear the words CHALLENGE ACCEPTED echo through the symbiote’s head. 

 

“ **I will find a disguise** ,” he says, before running back into the house. 

 

Meanwhile, Eddie runs for the bus stop. 

 

He needs a moment alone. A moment to think in the clear light of day. Oddly enough, what concerns him most is that he doesn’t feel terribly concerned. Is it possible that Venom’s still affecting him? Even at a distance? A symbiote is inside the old man, controlling his body, listening to his thoughts. It’s straight out of a horror movie. And it could happen to anyone. 

 

By Venom’s own admission, he’s taken multiple Hosts. He’s an unknown entity. Scientists probably don’t even know the long-term effects of sharing a body with a parasite of Venom’s complexity. And that scene at the lab...there must be people looking for Venom. Hunting him.

 

More importantly, it’s proof he’s dangerous. Not that Venom had had any trouble admitting he's eaten people. He’d been remorseless and matter-of-fact. 

 

Honestly, maybe Eddie shouldn’t be waiting for the school bus. 

 

Maybe he should be heading for the nearest train station?

 

But before he can make up his mind, Venom drives up wearing a full beard of stamps and wearing a torn valance from the living room on his head. 

 

Eddie can’t help it. He bursts into laughter. “In what world did you look in the mirror and decide that was a good disguise?”

 

Shoving the passenger door open from the inside, Venom shrugs. “ **Still look human, but not like Willis.** ” 

 

“Wow. Way to set yourself a really low bar. I’m not sure it’s any better that I show up to school with someone who looks like they shouldn’t be allowed to operate a vehicle,” Eddie says, but takes the seat anyway. “Just remember to take all that off before you go to work.” 

 

“ **These are work-related** ,” Venom says, picking off a stamp from under his chin. 

 

“That’s not how you use those. Unless it’s your way of saying you want me to mail you and Grandad to Antarctica. You could help the glaciers melt faster.” 

 

Venom shakes his head. “ **Can’t get rid of me that easy.** ”

 

That should sound ominous. Instead, it leaves Eddie grinning. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a plan-ish. There should be around 3 or 4 chapters left to this one. Not sure what progress will be like on Good Boy after that. 
> 
> I have some original stories I'm finally making headway in / see a way forward for and it's been going reasonably well. I don't want to lose momentum while I have it. But I'll keep chugging away at this. 
> 
> Next chapter should finally result in some Venom POV.   
> Let me know if there's still unanswered questions about what happened to get Venom to this point or any other questions.  
> Also, let me know if any of this seems rushed/too unrealistic/boring.   
> Not sure if it can be easily fixed, but may prompt me to think about it. More actual things happening soon though, if that's any consolation.


End file.
